


Twenty Miles

by AgentCoop



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 1940s, Basically horrible, Blood, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rape/Non-con Elements, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: It was never supposed to be easy.Joining the army was heroic, and it was noble, and it was work.It wasn't easy, but it was never supposed to be like this.





	Twenty Miles

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Filthiest Piglet who allowed me to write this based on her absolutely amazing comic!
> 
> Also, if you came here via my other AO3 works: PLEASE read the tags. Please.

It's dark in the barracks bathrooms and Steve moves in quietly, not turning on the single light switch in the corner.

He hates these nights; nights when he wakes up suddenly having to piss, and it's one in the morning and every man in the barracks is deeply asleep and snoring. He hates the agonizing moments when he slowly pulls off the woolen blanket from his body one inch at a time, and swings his legs over the ledge of the bunk ever so carefully. He's wearing socks and underwear and nothing else. It's always easier this way. He can sneak out and no one hears him leave, no one hears him return. Most nights he's safe. Most nights he returns to his bunk in silence and counts, breathes in and out, controls each moment until he falls back asleep. He supposes he should be thankful he's so small; less mass to clatter about and alert someone that he's moving. He supposes that being small is reason he's in this mess in the first place.

He finishes quickly in the washroom, tucking himself back into the army issue briefs that sag on his frame. He steps up to the stainless steel sink and turns on the water ever so slightly, then quickly scrubs his hands together, avoiding his reflection in the worn mirror. He knows he won't like what he sees.

The wooden doors bang open and he freezes at the sink. _Not tonight_ , he thinks. They have a twenty mile run tomorrow at dawn and he knows what’s coming, but all he can think is _Please. Not tonight._

There's only two of 'em this time—Brant and Hodge—but Hodge is always the worst, he's always the _worst_ , and they're whispering just a little too loudly, and holding on to the door frame, letting the moonlight leak in and pool about the dusty floor like spilt liquid.

They're drunk.

Steve doesn't know where they found the booze, and he doesn't know how the hell they’re going to play it off tomorrow morning when the sun crests the horizon and they all have to run, but he knows they're drunk now, he can already smell it on them, and it's always worse when they're drunk.

He's gripping the sink now, fingers white with tension, and trying to figure his play in this. He's standing there, with nothing on. He feels that tendril of fear snaking it's way down to his gut and latching on, but mostly he feels anger. Intense anger.

It shouldn't be like this.

This isn't what war was supposed to be like.

He knew he would have to fight, and have to shoot, and have to run, and probably have to die. He didn't count on having to make it through this and _still_ have to prove himself day after day. He wonders if he'll have to see Erksine again after all is said and done—have to look him in the eye and tell him all bets are off because Steve's body is crummy and lame and _weak_ , and all that fight to get past the docs’ back in Brooklyn was for nothing.

Thing is, he doesn't feel weak in his heart anymore. He can take this. He takes it, and he fights, and he spits, and he wakes up every morning and salutes—stands tall.

They poke fun at him for it. Laugh at him, sticking around for nothing. Steve takes a dick like a fuckin' champ and then falls on his face in the middle of an asthma attack during drills, gasping for air with tears streaming down his face.

He doesn't cry during this part. He just doesn't.

He looks up in the mirror—looks past the fading bruise around his left eye, and watches them advance. He might be able to make it out of here. There's only two this time which would give him a chance on a normal night, but they’re drunk, and drunk means dangerous.

“Ho boy, Brant, looks like we got ourselves a right good-time girl. Look at her, all sweet in her little panties, with her pink tits out to play.”

Steve's grip tightens further on the sink and his lips press tight. He keeps watching them, not turning around yet, waiting for his chance.

“Why don't you assholes go back to barracks and leave it alone.”

Brant just chuckles and pulls a small container out of his pants pocket—uncaps it and takes a long gulp. Whiskey, Steve figures. It smells like whiskey.

“Oh Stevie boy,” Hodge cat-calls, “why don't you just turn around and play with us?”

“Fuck you,” Steve mutters under his breath. He never used to swear like this. Used to yell at Bucky about his dirty mouth. Guess there’s a time and place for everything. He's focusing on breathing steady, on not letting his chest tighten up, and he tries to relax, tries to get ready for the fight. They're almost on him now.

“Don't be like that, doll.”

He turns as quick as he can and lashes out with his right fist, managing to strike Hodge directly in the nose. Steve's grunting, and swearing, and throwing every ounce of body weight he has behind his punches.

Hodge yelps, and throws his hand up immediately, surprised, and Steve uses the distraction to run as fast as he can. He pushes directly into Brant, who's still sitting there holding the open bottle of whiskey and Steve tries to use his weight they way they show them in drill, tries to relax into it and shoulder his way through, put the enemy off balance, push by,

running into Brant is like running into a brick wall.

The bottle falls to the cement floor and shatters—the acrid smell of liquor suddenly overpowers the small room—and Brant snags Steve by the neck with one hand, and fists his hands into Steve's hair with the other, then forces him back towards the sink. He has a moment of clarity, a moment to think, _it was never supposed to be like this_ , then Brant smashes his face mercilessly against the edge of the sink.

His vision blacks out for a second, and he can feel warmth running down his temple, into his eye and over his cheek. He panics—arms start flying and legs start kicking and he tries to get in a punch, a kick, anything at all, and then there are two of them pulling him down. His head is throbbing. It hurts, and there's blood everywhere. Random thoughts flicker through his consciousness and he tries desperately to keep his eyes open.

_Who's gonna clean this up_

Brant's hand is wrapped around his throat and there is sudden pressure behind his eyes.

They could kill him.

They're ripping at his shorts. He feels nauseous, there's cold cement at his back, and the hands release his throat. Brant is behind him now, cradling Steve's head in his lap, while Hodge perches himself on Steve's chest. It hurts like hell. Hodge is 200 pounds of pure muscle and Steve can't breathe, _he can't breathe,_ so he’s gasping, sucking in oxygen, and trying not to cry as Brant strokes his ear, strokes down the side of his neck.

He doesn't cry.

It's gentle and it's familiar, and this is the part that always kills him, because it's Brooklyn on a hot night, and God he misses that more than anything.

Hodge leans over him now, and Steve can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Quiet down, supersoldier. Don't want you workin' yourself up over nothin' now. Not when you got your mission to perform.”

He giggles, and Steve squirms underneath, tries to find purchase, gasps out words.

“So hard up you can't even find a dame who'll let you touch her huh?”

Steve wishes he had something more clever to say. He still can't think straight for his head pounding. Hodge smacks him across the face, and then he feels the cold metal of Brant's pistol against his throat. He squints his eyes closed and tries to breathe. He shouldn't have said it. They're drunk and drunk is dangerous.

“Don't fuck around, doll.”

Hodge is leaning back from his face now and Steve can almost get a full breath in, he tries, but as he opens his mouth something is suddenly crudely stuffed in. He starts to cough, and tries to use his tongue to push it out, expel the matter, but he can feel the pistol drop away and Brant is working at the back of his head, pulling string tight, and it’s stuck, it’s stuck in his throat, he can’t get a breath in, he’s throwing his head back and forth, his chest hurts,

the pistol is back, digging into his neck. He can feel the barrel of it when he swallows. He opens his eyes.

Hodge is grinning down at him now, looking him over with an appraising look, and Steve finally realizes it’s his own sock choking him, stuffed in his mouth and soaking up his spit. He can feel his cheeks coloring, and he wants to look away, wants to cry, but he won’t give in.

“I’m gonna just move off you for a second now, doll.” Hodge speaks to him like he’s a child, like he’s five, and Steve glares at him as hard as he can manage. He can feel his eye starting to swell up already, and he’s having trouble seeing straight.

“I’m gonna just move up a bit and I want you to turn around. Give me a nice view of that tight pussy, why don’t ya.”

Steve wants to speak, he wants to push the vowels and consonants out past this hateful, humiliating gag and tell them to go fuck themselves, but the only sound that makes it past the wet fabric is a pitiful moaning noise.

Steve hates himself.

The pistol jams harder in the side of his neck, so he moves himself, positions himself slowly, ass presented up to Hodge. His dick is limp, dead weight against his balls, but now he can see Brant, see the way he’s eyeing him up and down, can see him undoing his belt buckle and it all makes him just feel sicker.

He can get through this,

He always gets through this.

Brant pockets the gun, and looks Steve square in the eyes as he finally speaks.

“Don't need this anymore, right Rogers?”

His voice is soft, velvety. Almost sounds like he cares.

Steve just closes his eyes again as Hodge grabs him tightly around his hips—hands digging right into the bone. Almost feels sometimes like they'll just grip him so tightly he'll snap in half and the nightmare will end. He'll wake up, back in bed, back in Brooklyn and he'll roll over, and Bucky'll be sitting there smiling down at him. He'll speak, and Steve'll know everything's gonna be just fine.

He pushes him forwards, right onto Brant's waiting dick, then Hodge’s cock pushes in beside and Steve jolts out of his safe space with a panicked yell. It's never been this before. He can't do this. He can't take them both and, it can't feel,

it can't feel good for them,

he can't think straight for the shooting tearing pain.

It can't feel good for them, but they’re moving still, moving together, and Brant closes his eyes, and Steve feels Hodge moan behind him. Steve groans—a muffled, hurt sound—and his hands scrabble for purchase on Brant's shoulders.

“Uh uh, babe.”

Steve's arms are suddenly lifted up and back, and now his shoulders are screaming. It feels like they’re going to be pulled right out of their sockets, and he still can't breathe. He's starting to go into raw panic mode—breaths coming quickly and harshly out his nose. He can feel each jolt of Hodge' cock, feel his balls slamming into the back of his legs, and it hurts to take them both, it hurts so damn bad.

He's going to be sick. He can feel the bile in his throat, and he can hear the whining, whimpering sounds he's making—slipping now, falling past the cracks, bouncing down onto cold, lifeless cement.

“Don't be such a pussy, Rogers.”

Hodge is still speaking, but Steve can't focus anymore, can't hear anything but the roaring in his ears as he feels his own dick start to harden.

He hates this part.

He's not really sure what wrong with him. Not sure why this has started happening. Not sure how it even _can_ happen with as much pain as he is currently in. Brant speaks again, quietly, but with venom, and a smirk creeping up his face.

“Yeah. You love this, don't you.”

Steve wrinkles up his nose, takes as deep a breath as he can manage, then throws his head forward in an attempt to pull loose, in an attempt to head-butt Brant. He almost makes it. His forehead brushes against Brant's, but his back suddenly seizes up and it feels like this is it, this might be the end, this is all he can take. Hodge is still behind him—dick halfway out, and he's swearing, Steve can hear that much. He lets go of Steve's wrists suddenly, and punches out with his right fist, a blow that catches Steve right in the kidney, and suddenly it's all Steve can do to keep from screaming with all his might.

He catches himself on Brant's chest, and he can't move anymore. Every thrust from the two men is sending shooting pain up his back and down his sides. His head is pounding like it might burst into a thousand pieces and join the broken glass on the cement around them. Hodge pulls him back up again, wraps his arms around Steve's chest in some caricature of intimacy and Steve can feel his tongue against his ear, the wet moisture of Hodge breath as he begins to speak again.

“Oh yeah,” he groans, “You're always so tight. Almost as good as a girl.”

The whispered moment is too much, everything hurts _too much_. The new angle that he's at is shattering his spine, and he can feel wetness now on the back of his thighs. Hodge and Brant are still going strong, so they haven't finished, not yet, it must be blood. His erection wanes and _thank God he doesn't have to deal with that humiliation tonight_ because he's not sure he can take anything else they throw at him now. Hodge pushes him down again and pants in his ear.

“You know they'd never pick you in a million years. Least this way, you're good for somethin'.”

He's gotta be close, has to be. Steve wants to puke, but the damn sock stuffed in his mouth would cause him to suffocate on it and he sure as hell ain't dying this way. He forces himself to swallow, focuses on the static sound between his ears, almost goes somewhere else, until he feels Hodge stiffen behind him, and sigh.

Hodge is breathing in his ear again, and Steve flinches—wanting to be far away, he wants to go away—but he catches that last whisper as Hodge pulls out,

“That's right, punk,”

and how dare he say that, how _dare_ he call Steve that, he can't, he can't breathe, he doesn't want Bucky anywhere near this and now,

Brant is still pumping into him, but he can't feel him anymore—feels like he is a massive open wound, feels like his heart is beating his life blood through his veins and it is spilling out on the floor underneath him.

He can't breathe, he's trying, there's a dirty sock stuffed in his mouth and he can't get a breath in around it, everything is hollow and everything is loud and he's crying now, there are tears running down his face,

_he can't breathe_

Brant grabs his arms tight enough to bruise and gasps loudly as he comes, then shoves Steve to the side.

He can't breathe.

Steve is dimly aware of Brant standing up—tucking himself in, then washing his hands at the sink. He can hear his heart beating loudly in his ears—a rhythm that is fast, unsteady, wrong. It hurts—there is nothing inside of him anymore, but it still feels like he is being torn apart.

They're back now— both standing over him--and no one is there to help him, no one is there to save him. He's making wheezing noises and struggling with the ties behind his head, he just needs to get the wadded cotton out of his mouth again, he just needs to count to five, he just needs to be saved, just this once, be saved,

he can feel wetness now, something is soaking him through, it's warm, and it's raining, and it's toxic and he finally recognizes that they're pissing on him and this shouldn't be his breaking point, but his chest is constricting and his ribs might shatter, he needs to breathe,

“ _Breathe, Steve. It's ok, breath with me. I'm gonna count,_

_one._

_two._

_three._

_Yes! That's right, you're doing so good, punk. Just keep breathing, you're gonna be just fine, I've got you,_

_four._

_five.”_

He's on his knees when he hears the door slip close with a whisper. They are gone, and he's holding the gag in his left hand. The room smells like ammonia, and it smells like blood, and it smells like shit, but he's breathing.

He hates them.

But he's breathing, he's a fighter. And tomorrow he's going to run twenty miles.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bathroom Encounters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708292) by [EvilDime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime)




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